


All Fed Up

by sawbones



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Feeding, M/M, Oral Sex, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 15:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sawbones/pseuds/sawbones
Summary: Shuhrat’s mother liked to cook - that much was obvious just by looking at him. He had the kind of build of someone who had never known hunger in his life, broad in the chest and thick in the waist, not overweight exactly but not likely to starve any time soon. The most surefire sign, however, was the way he always lingered at the fringes of the kitchen whenever Timur was cooking.





	All Fed Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kinktober.

Shuhrat’s mother liked to cook - that much was obvious just by looking at him. He had the kind of build of someone who had never known hunger in his life, broad in the chest and thick in the waist, not overweight exactly but not likely to starve any time soon. The most surefire sign, however, was the way he always lingered at the fringes of the kitchen whenever Timur was cooking. **  
**

It was a little off putting at first, since Shuhrat never said anything unless Timur spoke to him first - he wasn’t shy, but he’d probably been chased out of the kitchen at home with a smack from a wooden spoon one too many times to risk pissing off the cook. He’d always say it smelled good, regardless of whatever was cooking. Not a fussy eater, of course, or just hungry enough not to care.

Timur recognised someone fishing for a plateful when he heard it. Alexsandr could cook but didn’t, and would live off tins of corned beef if someone didn’t stop him, and Maxim powered through MREs on and off duty like it was gourmet, so in the end Timur was the only one that ever really cooked for them. It wouldn’t be any great effort to make sure there was enough for four instead.

He didn’t mind, really, he liked cooking. It wasn’t dissimilar from painting, just with a different sort of palette. It was a nice way to clear his mind after a long day, and it was nicer still to eat something not packed in single-serve foil pouches.

That first night, he offered Shuhrat a taste, holding out a morsel scooped straight from the pan - and instead of taking it from him like any normal person would, Shuhrat leaned in and ate it right off the fork. It felt like a jolt of electricity buzzing through the metal handle, with his dark eyes kept low and his cheeks ruddy. He gave Timur a small smile and said it was good, and they ate together, standing in the kitchen with no sound but the contented clink of cutlery against the bottom of their bowls. It became habit after that.

–

It was the unluckiest lucky shot ever, when the White Mask in the vault room managed to shoot the Matryoshka just as it was about to be deployed. The cluster charge misfired, blowing back on Shuhrat; his gear held up against the shrapnel, thankfully, but his ribs were bruised to hell and back and his hands had been badly burned. If the full charge had went off, he would have been dead in an instant.

The mood in the Spetsnaz block of the barracks after he was discharged had been terse, to say the least. All four of them had been a little shaken by such a close call, and how they dealt with things like that never quite fit together. Alexsandr’s blunt humor rubbed up against Maxim’s sparking, frustrated anger, and Timur just felt a sort of flat dread that pressed on everyone. Shuhrat seemed to take it the best, all things considered, powering through with an almost admirably stubborn denial. He was mostly just annoyed at being confined to bed for a few days; it made him quiet and irritable - well, more so than usual.

Timur carefully shouldered the door open, and shut it behind him with his foot. Shuhrat pushed himself into a sitting position, his obvious interest in the tray he was carrying edged in pain.

“Lamb pelmeni,” Timur said, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing the tray on Shuhrat’s lap, “And sweet kasha, for after. You like redcurrants, yes? Redcurrant jam?”

Shuhrat nodded. Of course he did. Timur held the tray steady for him while he fumbled to pick up the fork he’d given him; he didn’t have the strength in his hands to grasp it, not would his thick bandages let him. He let him struggle for a moment, before he clicked his tongue and took the fork from him before he sent dumplings pinging all over the bed.

“Chechenka, stop,” Shuhrat protested, annoyed and perhaps a little embarrassed. Timur ignored him; he speared one of the pelmeni and held it up for him. When he didn’t budge, he bit back his urge to sigh and lowered the fork instead

“You need help, Shura, so let me help you,” he said.

He didn’t want to scold him, he knew that he was feeling genuinely frustrated. He really did want to help him, even if that meant feeding him like a child. They would all need a caretaker at some point in their lives, and Timur didn’t mind. In fact, he kind of liked it.

“I don’t need a fork, I can eat it with my–”

“If you dirty your bandages, I’m telling Doc,” Timur blurted. Shuhrat paused, his hand overing over the plate of dumplings. He narrowed his eyes.

  
“You wouldn’t,” he said.

He wouldn’t. Neither Shuhrat nor Doc deserved the headache. He didn’t admit that as he held the pelmeni up to his mouth again.

“Before they get cold,” he said.

If a single mouthful went to waste, he’d be pissed and Shuhrat knew it; while he wasn’t known to be the most intimidating Spetsnaz operator on the base, he had a particular kind of domestic browbeating he had been told was _very_ effective.

Shuhrat’s cheeks were already pinkish, his mouth sullen, but any further objections he had dissolved into a moan of appreciation as soon as he took a bite. He ate the first pelmeni quickly, and the second too.

“This is really good,” he admitted, “…I love lamb.”

“I know,” Timur said. Shuhrat loved lamb, mutton, even goat. Timur didn’t care for any of them, but he wasn’t cooking for himself.

By the time Shuhrat had cleared his plate, a curious sense of satisfaction had come over him, starting somewhere in his stomach and spreading all the way to his toes. It was a slow and comfortable heat, but a heat nonetheless, simmering just beneath his skin as Shuhrat licked his lips and eyed the bowl of kasha with a simple kind of want. Find a need and meet it; find a mouth and feed it.

He swapped the fork for a spoon, all hesitation already forgotten.

–

The day Shuhrat had his bandages removed for the final time, Timur sat down at the kitchen table and held the fork up to his mouth without thinking. There was a moment - just a moment - when their eyes met and realisation hit, and he was convinced that any moment Shuhrat was going to scold him, mock him, push the food away.

But he didn’t. He looked from the food, to Timur, and back again; he touched his wrist, guiding his hand forward by inches, and leant forward to meet it. He ate the first mouthful, silently, thoughtfully, still not quite able to meet Timur’s eye - and then patiently waited for more.

Timur was sure his hand would shake or that he’d make a mess; he was sure that Shuhrat was seconds away from shouting _sike_ and ruining it all. It never came. He finished his plate and asked for seconds.

–

They began to make excuses to the others so they could eat together but alone - late training sessions, errands to run, anything that meant they ended up in the kitchen after everyone else had cleared out.

Timur didn’t know what they were doing, or why - tried not to think about it too closely in case it spooked him. Shuhrat didn’t want to be babied; Timur didn’t want to be his mother either. But he did _want_. He wanted to care, he wanted to sooth, he wanted to nourish. He wanted to feed.

It wasn’t a sex thing, not really - although there were times when he became fixated on Shuhrat’s mouth during it, the pink tongue, the dark hair at the corners of his well-turned lips, and he wanted to press his fingers against it, into it, feel him suck the taste from his fingertips.

It wasn’t a sex thing, until it was.

Maybe it had been a long time coming, even before their strange habit began. It certainly felt like a natural progression when one day he offered Shuhrat a raspberry on a silver spoon and chased it with a kiss - just a little one, just enough to get the impression of acidic sweetness from behind his teeth. Shuhrat had frowned at him, maybe more for interrupting dessert than for doing it in the first place, but he didn’t object when Timur rucked up the hem of his t-shirt, palmed his way across the firm, sated swell of his belly. He always took whatever Timur had to offer him; not a fussy eater, he remembered, or just hungry enough not to care.

The spoon fell in the bowl with a clatter. Timur stood up, let Shuhrat pull the waistband of his sweatpants down; his mouth as already open, waiting for Timur to feed his cock between his lips, slowly, his thumb pressing on his bottom teeth to stretch him further. He swallowed him down like he was still starving, eyes closed, cheeks hollowed. Timur pushed his hand through his unruly hair, cupping the back of his head but not pushing, not controlling, just letting him take what he wanted, what he needed.

He looked beautiful, so he told him; Shuhrat answer with a pleased hum, and swallowed down every last drop when Timur came across his tongue, licking his lips like he wanted more. Timur couldn’t help the smile the pour out of him and into a kiss where he could taste himself among the raspberries.

Shuhrat’s mother liked to cook, that much was obvious - but Timur liked to feed.

**Author's Note:**

> say hi at [glazkov-smile](https://glazkov-smile.tumblr.com/)


End file.
